


Promise

by WinryWeiss



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century (Cartoon)
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Fluff, M/M, Slash, Transcendental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/pseuds/WinryWeiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was it only the personality of late Doctor Watson that Beth Lestrade’s compudroid imbibed from said man’s private journals? Or was it the Doctor’s very soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Most hearty thanks to [gardnerhill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill) for help and proofreading.
> 
> Also, you might find [this](http://www.qbit.it/lab/bintext.php) rather useful.

I am remarkably strong, due to the fact that I have a robotic body, but even with Holmes’ help it proved almost impossible to drag Lestrade out of the firing line towards the relative safety of maintenance shaft. She is just as determined as her ancestor used to be. The same stubborn audaciousness for which Holmes picked Inspector as his liaison at Scotland Yard three centuries backwards runs undeniably in her blood. Unfortunately, she inherited the easy to irritate personality as well.

“Zed!” Lestrade kicks my leg, the dull clank drawing Holmes’ attention. Despite the dimness I can clearly see the thin, disapproving line his lips form at such treatment. “I nearly got them!” she snaps at me accusingly. 

She never aims her fury at Holmes.

I know that trying to explain her anything is useless when she is at such state, ready to explode with the slightest impetus like a deadly volcano. 

Holmes very much likes to ignore this fact. “Yes, you nearly got yourself killed.”

“Killed?! They have the worst aim possible.”

“True, but they still might have managed to hit you.”

This is not the very best of circumstances for these two to argue, thus I shall better step in, taking the blame on my person.

“That would be the true devil’s luck,” Lestrade tosses her head in aggravation.

No words come out of my mouth, only an odd monotonous noise, inaudible for human’s ears.

“Which they had so far.” Holmes crosses his arms, casting a challenging look at her.

I run damage diagnostic quickly, the heat of panic rising up my spine. Nonsense, Watson, compudroids do not experience panic, or have a spine, for that matter. 

Nor should they be able to imbibe the personality of a dead man through his private journals.

“Oh, _come on_ , Holmes! Just ‘cause they managed to get in here unnoticed -”

“By _tunnelling_ their way. That would be _outdated_ even in my time.” 

“And yet, in The Red-Headed League ...” Lestrade jabbed her forefinger in the air.

Dear me, I have been shot two times.

My speech centre sustained the worst damage, completely disabled for the time being. Otherwise I’m fairly in working order.

“ _That_ was an exception.”

My hearing sensors catch the shushing sound of air-locked door opening, my enhanced vision recognise one of the thugs from before creeping towards us, ray gun raised and ready.

No, dear Lord, _no_.

I’m unable to talk, unable to warn, to protect Holmes and Lestrade.

The only thing I can do is to throw myself at Holmes, skewing him and subsequently Lestrade off balance with my weight and take the dead stun blast meant for them.

Ah, my casing was impaired in the previous shooting, my circuits lay bare. The electric impulse might damage the operating sys---system ... that’s not gooOoOOooot ... failure failure failure failure ... kcehrosl ... SH ... 01010011 01101000 01100101 01110010 01101100 01101111 01100011 01101011 00100001 – -----___--- – – ---__-- - ___ ---- _ _ _ 

“Watson!”

 

“ ** _WATSON_!** ”

~~\-----------------~~ /\\/ ~~\------~~ /\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\/

 

Heartbeat.

I could feel his heartbeat.

Underneath my hand Holmes’ heart beat like a startled fledgling.

He finally, _finally_ , opened his eyes. The misty grey of pale winter sky was not piercing and distant as usual, but hazy and shaken.

“John,” he whispered, his words carried away by crisp Cornish wind immediately, but I was close enough to understand. I’m close enough to him to always understand. “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I nearly killed us both.”

“That’s fine.” With my other hand I caressed his hair, first filaments of silver barely visible in the richness of raven black. “That’s fine. We would be together that way.”

“John!” He covered my hand with his own and gripped with all his power, shocked from what I hoarsely uttered.

With a shaking sigh I looked at the cottage. Through wide open door the murderous lamp gleamed, shading the still tangible wicked vision.

The reckless sound of breakers overpowered the wailing of wind. 

I shivered, not only due to cold. “I couldn’t bear ... to ... to lose you ... losing you again ... I, I wouldn’t ... I, Holmes ... that ...”

He slowly raised his other hand, touching my face gently.

“Sherlock,” I whimpered.

“Yes.”

“Sherlock, you are ... my most precious person in the world ... I can’t, simply _can’t_ ... never again ... I ...”

“You would not,” he promised me. He drew me closer, pressing our foreheads against each other. “ **I** would not.”

I love him.

I always did. I always will.

 

The noise grows louder. I thought it was the humming of water, the sound of waves upon promontory and sharp cliffs, but no, no, it is the ear-splitting and urgent howl of siren and voices. One of them belongs to a woman and the other ... The other is Sherlock’s. It’s his voice, different, younger, but still unmistakably his. 

“ _Are you serious_?!”

“Look, Holmes, I know -”

“No, you don’t!”

“He is too heavy. We can’t -”

“ **Can’t**?! **I** can’t leave him behind. I **won’t** leave him behind. Never again.”

 

“Again, John?” Sherlock leaned at the backrest of my armchair.

“Hmm?” I stretched my legs towards the fireplace. My injury had been troubling me for the last few days.

“You married again.” He rustled the newest issue of The Strand.

“Ah. You’ve read my latest story.”

“Very _fanciful_ , if I may be so bold. One day, my dear, your literary licence will backfire on you.” He seated himself in his own armchair and lit his pipe. “So, have you moved away?”

“Of course. I could hardly live here with my new wife.”

“True. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Erm, Mrs Watson.”

“I meant Christian name.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven’t made it up so far.”

“Irresponsible,” Sherlock clicked his tongue. “And how would we explain your permanent presence in here to our friends?”

“I just come over to see whether you are still alive?”

He chuckled. “Just promise me to warn me in advance next time, be so kind.”

“I did.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I sighed.

“And was I paying attention?”

“Well, you were dissecting your dinner and hummed in approval. But, since you are asking, then, apparently, not.”

 

“ **NOT**?!”

“Well, Mr Holmes, it might not be –” New voice, distressed and unhappy.

“Might not be what?” That woman again.

“Detective, please, th-this compudroid is ... quite unique. To repair it, I must replace certain components, but that might cause its memory relapse into factory setting.”

Silence.

Only stretching silence follows, until it is finally shattered by Holmes’ barely audible shaky “ _What_?”

 

“Yes, you heard correctly.”

“... hl ... _Sussex_?”

“Lovely country there.”

“You want to ... to _retire_. Into the _country_?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, throwing away the used bandage. Evans simply _had_ to hit my bad leg. My dearest friend twirled a brand-new roll of bandage in his fingers. “You always said you would like to.”

“Yes, I would. But ... Sherlock ... do you really want to retire?”

He snorted. “Of course I don’t.” Then he bent and pressed his lips over my newest injury. I sensed his whisper against my thigh, a silent vow of devotion. “But your well-being is more important.”

 

“ _Please_.”

Why does he sound so sad?

How come that he isn’t guarding his emotions as always, that I can clearly recognise the _loneliness_ in his voice?

And most importantly, why is he lonely?

I’m right next to him, aren’t I?

I promised.

 

Sun shined through my straw hat. Sunday afternoons during summer are lazy by their essence.

Without any further notice that I woke up (Sherlock, undoubtedly, already realised that) I declared: “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you have been observing me for _hours_. Aren’t you quite bored with it already?”

He chuckled.

I tipped my hat up enough to glance at him. 

Sherlock’s hairs were now pure silver, but his eyes never lost their intensity. They were smiling at me brightly. “Oh, I doubt I ever would.”

“Is that a promise?” I smiled back.

“Just a little one.”

 

“ _Please, John_. Come back to me.”

But I **am** right next to you!

“You are my most precious person in the world. You always were. Without you, I can’t, I simply _can’t_ ...”

I want to console him, to soothe him, to caress him, to fulfil each and every promise I gave him, as I used to do during our years in London and even later, when we really retired to Sussex, until the very last day. 

Until both of us ... died.

Oh dear...

How could I forget _that_?

“You are the only one I have left.”

 

“I don’t want _any_ compudroid, I want Watson!” Holmes’ frantic voice carried over the riverside.

I struggled towards the bank. The Thames was as dirty as it used to be back in Victorian Era, if not even dirtier, so for once I was really glad that I’m not human anymore. 

Tetanus. I had better inoculate Holmes against tetanus, he took a first-class swimming in this. Ah, but wait, his body was still dealing with the consequences of resurrection, any vaccine might cause unwanted (and possibly lethal) reaction.

He was next to me in seconds and I clearly saw his immense relief.

I didn’t realise back then what it meant.

But every time I said something which reminded him that I’m not _his_ John Watson, that I am mere incomplete reflection of his late friend lacking important memory, I caught a glimpse of the infinite sorrow it caused him.

I might have been by his side, but _I_ wasn’t the one he wished to be there.

Nevertheless, I wanted, no, I _needed_ , to be next to him, as close as possible.

 

“Ready?” That woman – Lestrade, _Beth Lestrade_ , Inspector’s descendant – asks.

“Yes.” He is lying, I can tell. “Switch him on.”

01001001 00100000 01110111 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100001 01101100 01110111 01100001 01111001 01110011 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01100010 01111001 00100000 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110011 01101001 01100100 01100101

It’s not a mere statement. It’s not a wish, nor an oath.

It used to be a promise.

Now it’s a fact.

I have to wait, silent and unmoving, until complete diagnostic runs through, until all new components will be successfully accustomed to my programming.

Meanwhile, Holmes and Lestrade stand side by side, observing me anxiously.

I’m in flawless working order again.

But more importantly, I remember.

Not everything, sadly that is quite impossible. Many pieces of my memory have been lost forever.

But I remember.

I remember being human.

I remember loving Sherlock Holmes.

His immense relief when I enquire about how they managed to get out of the death trap after I prematurely ended up ready for maintenance is heartwarming.

Lestrade, grinning like a Cheshire cat, bids us farewell with assurance that she will drop by again as soon as she deals with the mountain of paperwork. Apparently, certain things never change.

“Well, my dear fellow,” Holmes smiles at me, “would you like to be filled in about the most important occurrences that happened during those two weeks you were, hmm, indisposed?” 

I shake my head. “I can very well download them from the Yard’s main computer.” Before he can raise any objection I continue. “There is something else I have to do.”

He quirks his eyebrow at that, but nevertheless gestures me to continue. 

I look at him with newfound affection, surveying his tall and lean figure, his sharp features, his now brown hair and blue eyes. They will never recover their original colour. Not even doctor Hargreaves is able to explain why.

“Watson?” He is mystified from my scrutinising stare and continuous silence, appearing more puzzled than when he tried to figure out how television works.

“Do forgive me, my dear, but, if I may be so bold, you look rather ridiculous like that. Almost as bad as when you went undercover as a stagehand to gain evidence against Madame Camellia in ‘85.”

“Oh,” he chuckles with the memory. “I didn’t know that you made a record of that incident as well.”

“I did not, Sherlock.”

He stops short upon hearing his first name from my lips. “Then, pray, tell me, how ...”

“I remembered.”

He swallows idly, the sound incredibly loud in the silence of this remote part of New London, drowning out the constant hum of electricity and distant traffic. “How much...” his voice fails him.

“Not everything, I’m afraid. But ...” I close the distance between us and take both his hands into mine, cold metal against warm skin, kissing them as I used to do. “The promise I gave you after your return -”

“John,” he breathes out.

“Can you forgive me that I didn’t keep it?”

He smiles. His whole body, _his eyes_ , smile. Oh Lord, I haven’t seen this wondrous sight for ages. “I cannot. _You kept it_.”

“But I -”

“You were,” he kisses my cheek, “all the time,” my other cheek, “right next to me,” and my lips.

I kiss him back without restrain.

I will always be by his side. 

Just as I promised.


End file.
